


A Series of Unfortunate Google Searches

by hollybennett123



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Humor, M/M, Sam Wilson is So Done, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8057668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/pseuds/hollybennett123
Summary: "Bucky, come on," Steve says petulantly, and lord almighty does Sam need to find himself some better and less annoying friends. "I'm pretty sure you didn't invent rimming."





	A Series of Unfortunate Google Searches

**Author's Note:**

> I felt like writing something fun and silly and Sam-centric and for some reason my brain supplied this. I don't even know.

Whenever Sam invites Steve over to watch the game (and, by extension, Barnes, given that they usually come as a package deal), the day can go one of two ways. Sometimes, there’s good conversation. Everyone behaves like a normal, rational human being. There’s beer and there’s pizza and Sam understands, on a fundamental level, why he likes hanging out with these guys.

Right now, trying his best to ignore Asshole 1 and Asshole 2: Now Even More of An Asshole bickering quietly in the doorway between Sam’s living room and kitchen while he’s attempting to focus on the pre-game stuff on the TV, he knows that today is not one of those days. It shouldn’t take two grown-ass men five full minutes to get a beer for themselves and settle down, but here they are, and the universe is testing Sam’s normally near-infinite patience.

“Bucky, come _on_ ,” Steve says petulantly, and lord almighty does Sam need to find himself some better and less annoying friends. “I'm pretty sure you didn't _invent rimming_.”

Sam kinda wishes he could rewind time, take a swig of his beer at just the right second and perform the spit-take that the moment truly deserved. Or, common sense prevailing, maybe rewind to that blissful point in the past where he'd never met either of these jackasses and his life was a whole lot easier.

“Well I’m just saying,” Barnes responds, smug in the way that only someone with minimal self-awareness of their own failing argument could ever hope to pull off, “I'm pretty sure I did, sweetheart.”

“You _invented_ rimming? In the thirties?” Steve says dubiously. “How'd that work, huh? We did it and then you went out and told everybody? ‘Cause I'm pretty sure if you invent something you've gotta actually tell other people about it, otherwise how are they gonna know?”

Sam willingly invited these people into his home. He groans, tipping his head back on the couch, and wonders why bad things happen to good-hearted, good-looking people.

“Hey,” Sam says to get their attention, and then repeats himself when neither of them bother to acknowledge him in the slightest. “ _Hey_. Mister and mister overshare; you want to take this conversation somewhere a little more private before my damn ears start bleeding?”

They both, at least, turn to look at him this time. Steve even has the grace to look somewhat abashed. Of course the dude even blushes like a Disney princess, big blue eyes and little splashes of pink that highlight his cheekbones. Ridiculous shit right there.

As much as Sam would like to pretend his objections are because he definitely, one hundred percent does not want to imagine any of it, in reality there's a tiny part of him that maybe sorta _does_ want to imagine it, and no way in hell is he ready to deal with that shit yet. Sure, they're both nice to look at. Sure, maybe he could be a little bit into that whole thing they have going on and you can’t blame a guy for being _curious_ , but he’s not thinking about it, not at all, even if he knows what dealing with emotions in a healthy way looks like and this sure as hell ain’t it.

Instead he’s going to place those thoughts neatly into a box labelled _Nope_ all wrapped up in a big old package marked _Future Sam's Problem_. On the subject of big old packages, the whole Not Having Thoughts issue is made all the more difficult due to the situation going on today in which Steve’s jeans are way too tight and his dick is, like, _right there, man, holy shit_ ; Sam has to blink and look away before he gets caught unintentionally staring.

Dude’s either oblivious to it or he just doesn’t care. Sam’s money is on the first option since in all likelihood he was encouraged to wear the jeans by actual in-real-life-as-well-as-on-the-internet evil troll Bucky Barnes, Steve probably accepting Barnes’ stupid request with hearts in his eyes and total ignorance as to the whole cock-outlining thing that’s happening, right there, several feet from Sam at approximately eye level.

Barnes, as usual, pays no attention to Sam’s polite plea for them to shut up or fuck off, but after folding his arms and frowning a lot seems to have conceded the point. “Fine. Maybe I didn't invent it, but I'm pretty sure I did it first. Before anyone else did.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve says. “Literally no one else on earth ever thought of it? You’re so full of it, Buck, I swear.”

Sam sighs exaggeratedly, optimistically hoping they’ll take the hint, and tries to focus on the TV again. It doesn’t work.

“You know what?” Barnes grins, sounding far too pleased with himself. Like he's just had the idea to end all ideas. “ _I'm gonna Google it_.”

Sam's head swivels around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. He's giving in. He’s weak, he's getting involved. He's a part of this now.

“He's gonna -- he's gonna _Google_ it?” Sam asks Steve, Barnes having already left the room. “What in the actual hell is he going to search for? This I have to see.”

Barnes promptly returns, laptop in hand, having presumably retrieved it from the backpack currently sitting in Sam’s hallway. The guy wears a backpack a lot. Sam’s never quite figured out what he puts in there. His laptop, apparently, for moments like this one where sensible people would probably just use their phone. Sam’s not sure what else; he once peered into its depths while Barnes rifled through it, but he’s pretty sure he saw something moving in there and he’s too afraid to ask.

Opening the laptop up, Barnes sits himself down on the coffee table in front of Sam, cross-legged and with his back to him like that's a thing normal humans do. Sam leans forward so he can see the screen, and Steve perches himself on the corner of the table on the other side of Barnes so he can peer around. Barnes connects to Sam’s Wi-Fi using a password that Sam’s almost entirely certain he’s never given him in his life, and Sam adds another item to his mental list of things he’s not going to question because he’s not sure he wants to know.

Despite having a knack for using and understanding modern technology Barnes has a tendancy to type not only one-fingered but also one-handed, because quote-unquote, “I don't like the clicky noise the keyboard makes when I use my left hand, so _can it_ , Wilson.”

Sadly, it’s not the first time Sam’s been subjected to Barnes’ ten-words-a-minute keying. Annoying as it is, though, Sam's got to hand it to the guy; the slow-ass typing is really adding to the suspense. It also gives him plenty of time to read the highlighted search suggestions Google provides based on things Barnes has, apparently, searched for in the past.

 _What is a pokemon_ is kind of adorable. _Where can I download captain americas ww2 movies_ is one that Sam isn’t going to dwell on too much since he very much doubts that Barnes is obtaining them for a wholesome afternoon of movie-watching. _Who is faster at running me or a dog_ frankly suggests a fundamental lack of understanding as to how the internet works.

All told, it’s a bit anti-climactic when Barnes finally hits the enter key on _who invented rimming_ , mainly because what he’s looking for doesn’t fucking exist in the first place. He skips from page to page, none of which confirm anything but instead imply the obvious (being, Barnes didn’t invent jack shit, pretty much everything in the world of sex has been around forever, Barnes is still a jackass).

Barnes decides to go back to square one after a while, adding his own name into the search this time, and comes up with nothing. It’s actually getting a little sad now.

“See,” Steve says, knocking his shoulder against Bucky’s. “Told you. Sam, tell him.”

“Barnes, you didn't invent eating ass in the nineteen-goddamn-thirties and this is not a sentence I thought I’d ever have to say. Has brain bleach been invented yet? You should google that. Go ahead, man. I’d like to erase this whole conversation from my memory. And order me some damn pizza already while you’re at it, the game’s about to start.”

“All right,” Bucky concedes, rolling his eyes and obviously sulking a little.

“And really, Steve?” Sam says.

“Hey, what did _I_ do?”

“All the people in the world and you chose this guy?” he teases, gesturing at Barnes who’s still sat on the table like a weirdo, currently glowering at the on-screen pizza menu like he’s personally offended by the number of options he has to click through. “Really? I mean, you do you I guess, but come on.”

“To be fair, we were like twelve years old when he picked me,” Bucky murmurs wistfully. “Right, Stevie?”

That’s cute as fuck, but it’s besides the point.

“That,” Sam sighs, draining the rest of his beer and sinking back into the couch, “explains so much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: [hollybennett123](http://hollybennett123.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
